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ONE
Bayli Styles had extra pep in her step as she made her way down Lexington Avenue toward Manhattan’s hottest new venue, the newly opened steakhouse Davila’s NYC. Owned by international restaurateur Christian Davila and his business partner, celebrity chef Rory St. James.
She had an interview for a hostess position. Not the ultimate gig she aspired to, but living in New York City didn’t come cheap. Even her crappy apartment in a sketchy neighborhood cost a small fortune in rent. She was willing to pay the price—she’d wanted to live here since she was seventeen. Until recently, however, circumstances beyond her control had precluded her from packing herself up and making the trek from the beautiful wine country of River Cross, California. Tragic circumstances, to be exact.
Yet a decade later, here she was. Starting a new life. One that required her to land several part-time jobs with flexible hours so she could also take on modeling assignments sent her way by the agency that had agreed to rep her when she’d arrived two months ago. The assignments were a bit too few and far between, but at least she was building her portfolio. Perhaps someday soon she’d make a name for herself.
In the meantime, she’d do whatever it took to keep this city from kicking her ass. This vibrant, energetic city that she’d already fallen in love with, even if it did intimidate the hell out of her sometimes with the honking of horns, the hordes of people walking brisk seven-minute miles to and from work, and the infinite number of sights to see.
Luckily, she’d spent a few years living in San Francisco with her friends from high school—Jewel Catalano, a wine heiress, and Scarlet Drake, an insurance fraud investigator. So Bayli didn’t feel too country bumpkin. Most of the time, at any rate.
Today was a good example. She was treating this interview as she would a modeling job. She wore her favorite sleeveless one-shouldered black mini, believing the manager of Davila’s would want to see that she was chic and fashion forward. And could work her shift in five-inch heels. She’d pulled her long dark hair up in a sleek style and added simple accessories. Slim, elongated silver hoops and the sparkly crystal bracelet her mother had given her for Christmas several years ago. It was a costume piece and not worth anything other than sentimental value. A pretty trinket that kept her dearly departed mom close to her in spirit.
Bayli knew her mother would be proud of her for finally breaking free of all the trauma back in California and finding her own path. Even if it was slow going and she had to put in extra effort to make ends meet. Bayli had never lived a charmed life. She had high hopes her luck might change now that she’d ventured east to chase her wildest dreams.
Her stomach fluttered as she approached the tall, arched double doors of the steakhouse.
This could be so huge.
The “in” she needed when it came to conquering this city. So much potential lay beyond those doors. It was up to her to seize the opportunity. Reach for her own brass ring.
You can do this, Bay. Just go for it!
The restaurant didn’t open until cocktail hour during the week, which meant there’d be little activity, likely a low-key environment, before the hustle and bustle of dinnertime. That helped to minimize her anxiety over really and truly needing to be hired so she could pay her bills.
Although she was borderline in dire financial straits and feeling a tiny bit desperate, exhilaration trilled down her spine. Bayli had an ace in the hole for this interview and wasn’t above pulling out her connection to the Davila enterprise, no matter how indirect and distant that connection was. She simply had to get this job.
It wasn’t just about the money. As she’d mentioned to Jewel and Scarlet before the restaurant had launched, she considered it a viable springboard for her modeling career. A famous restaurateur and celebrity chef would pack in the people and the press. What a great place for Bayli to be discovered!
The possibility made her more excited. More determined to slay this.
She pulled open one of the doors and entered the softly lit establishment. Standing in the middle of the vast foyer, she inhaled deeply, smelling a wood-burning fire, new leather, and the most tantalizing, mouthwatering aroma coming from the kitchen.
To her right was a wide hallway with a wine cellar and private tasting room. Farther down were the restrooms. To her left was a lounge that looked more like a cozy study, showcasing endless shelves filled with hardback novels, a fireplace, sofas, and coffee and end tables. Being a bookworm who loved libraries, Bayli felt right at home.
It was also all very upscale and gorgeous. As she’d expected.
She walked beyond the large round table in the middle of the entryway with an enormous floral arrangement serving as a centerpiece and a stunning chandelier hanging overhead. Bayli had already looked at the menu online, and that was why she wasn’t surprised by the elegant and expensive décor. Anyone who’d lay down a couple hundred dollars for a filet mignon deserved to dine in high style.
The restaurant wasn’t a big one—just enough to comfortably accommodate thirty. She’d been forewarned when the manager had contacted her for the interview that reservations were difficult to come by. And, if hired, she’d be turning away more people than she’d be seating. A daunting challenge, but Bayli understood the exclusivity of the place.
What did shock her, however, was that there was a group of four at a table, sampling a trio of soups in miniature artsy bowls. The restaurant served lunch only on the weekends, so she surmised they must be food critics, magazine editors, or bloggers.
She didn’t have time to observe their reactions to the food, because a lanky, well-groomed blond in a tuxedo strode toward her with purpose. He extended his hand and swiftly and efficiently shook hers as he announced in a thick French ac
cent, “I am Pierre LaVallier, the manager of Davila’s NYC. You must be Miss Styles.”
“Yes. And Bayli is fine.” She smiled politely.
“Tres bien.”
Thank God Bayli had taken a year of French in high school. Hopefully nothing would get lost in translation during the interviewing process.
“Come, come,” he lightly insisted.
Pierre directed her past the massive bar made of rich, dark wood with intricate scrolled accents and panels and a shiny copper top. The wall behind it was lined with glass shelves and every manner of premium-level alcohol.
“Chef St. James would like to meet you before you and I sit down to chat,” Pierre informed her. “He’s already reviewed your application. Though you’re early, so he’ll require you to wait in the kitchen while he finishes his work.”
Bayli drew up short and gasped. “Rory St. James is here? Now?”
Pierre turned back to face her. “Oui. Of course,” he said a bit haughtily. “The restaurant has only been open for a month. He stays on-site for the first quarter before making the rounds at the other kitchens. Obviously, that’s part of the grand-opening frenzy. Why our phones ring off the hook for reservations that have to be booked two to three months out. If they’re lucky,” he added with panache and a dramatic hand gesture.
“Right. That makes perfect sense.” It also made it incredibly difficult for Bayli to breathe. She was going to meet Rory St. James. The man, the myth, the legend.
The chef who made sure every one of his and Christian Davila’s restaurants earned Michelin stars. Putting them on the “best of the best” lists in their respective cities. The chef who reportedly roared like a lion when things didn’t go right in his den.
Oh, shit.
Her hands started to shake. She clutched her slim black leather folder, which contained a copy of her résumé and some highlights from her modeling portfolio, to her chest.
Bayli was a research buff by nature, and she’d done her homework before she’d even applied for this position. So she knew what she was getting herself into. Problem was, she’d never worked as a hostess before and, well, the idea of being interviewed by Rory St. James was downright nerve-wracking.
“Are you all right?” Pierre asked with notable concern. “You’ve gone a bit pale.”
“Fine. I’m fine. I just like to be fully prepared when I…” Become someone else.
Breathe, Bay. Just breathe.
